Just Do This For Me
by Robin Purdy
Summary: The Sherlock characters are reaped into the Hunger Games! Who will die... and who will be proclaimed the victor? Will John and Sherlock be able to maintain a friendship, even though in the end, they know at least one of them will die? Rating will change
1. Chapter 1

**My first crossover fanfic! Woohoo! Please be kind enough to read and review, I always love feedback!**

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_Reaping day._

The one thing that, in all of Sherlock's life, he had feared.

He was intelligent. He knew what the odds were of getting picked. But still it made him scared.

The "machine" of District 10 was scared. He admitted it.

He wasn't scared of anything else, so this thing gave him more shock than it probably would to others.

But how would he know? As people told him (especially his brother), he didn't know about people's feelings, or even cared.

That was true, to a point.

But Sherlock was almost positive that what he was feeling was more than what others would feel.

He was in the bathtub, scrubbing down all of the grime that had built up from the past week. He had to look nice at the Reaping, even though he hated washing.

His mother and brother were downstairs eating breakfast, while his father was probably out drinking again in the little building that people called "The Rise". The Rise was a black market, and whenever Sherlock's father had some time off, he would be sitting in the Rise, getting drunk. Sherlock despised him.

Of course, Sherlock didn't care about his father anyway. He didn't need him. He didn't need anybody. Not his father, not his mother, not even his brother; all he needed was his mind and he would be able to do anything.

As Sherlock got out from the tub, dripping wet, searching for a towel to dry himself off, he thought about his chances of getting picked.

It had to be at _least _100 to 1. He was only entered about 15 times. Yeah. Only.

Their whole family agreed that each brother would only sign up for enough tesserae for half the family, so neither one of them had a frightening amount of entries.

Sherlock sighed as he tucked in his plain white button-down shirt into his large, hand-me-down black pants that had come from his brother.

Although the Holmes' family lived in the poorer part of District 10, Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, had always seemed to be overweight. People would go up to him sometimes, asking him with wonder about how he was able to hold so much weight and by eating so little food.

Sherlock was a bit jealous of his brother, because people always liked him more, although to Sherlock, they seemed to be almost identical, brain-wise. But, Sherlock speculated, maybe it was because Mycroft had that sort of likeable feel to him. He was _always _getting what he wanted, just because people liked his character.

But Sherlock never got anything from anyone. People would take one look at him, sneer, and ignore him for the rest of the day. What was it that made him seem so inferior to them?

It was something that he could answer, but he never had the patience or pleasure to do so.

Finally, after looking himself over one more time, trying to flatten down his flamboyant dark curls and failing, he turned and went downstairs to greet his brother and mother, and go to the dreaded Reaping.

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**If there are any mistakes of any kind, please notify me... anyways, thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

Once Sherlock registered in, he makes a beeline to where he was supposed to stand, which was right in the middle of the great crowd. He made no eye contact with anyone (Not that he would do so anyway) and tried to keep from shaking as everyone else filed into their place.

Time seemed to pass by so slowly that Sherlock was in agony. Why couldn't they just start it already? The four chairs on the stage were still unoccupied, but Sherlock wasn't directing his full attention to it. Instead, he was looking at the two empty glass bowls that would soon hold the names of the boys and girls of District 10. Three Peacekeepers were surrounding the one that usually held the boys names and they were pouring thousands of paper slips into it.

One paper had escaped the bowl, though. But none of the Peacekeepers noticed. Instead, they moved on to the girl's bowl and poured a different bag's contents into it.

Sherlock stared at the piece of the paper, which had floated down to the foot of the pedestal that held the boy's glass bowl.

Should he tell the Peacekeeper's about that piece of paper? What if it had his name on it? If he told them, they would surely put it in the bowl. If it did have his name on it, it would be better for it to stay where it was, because it would lower his chances of getting picked.

So he just lowered his head, pursed his lips, and hoped that no one would find that one slip of paper.

Four people now walked out onto the stage, Pristil Hudson, Jeffrey Alser, Mary Neewalls, and Oller Tress.

Alser, Neewalls, and Tress sat down in three of the four chairs as Hudson stepped up to the megaphone.

Hudson was District 10's sponsor, and she was always the one who performed the Reaping.

"Welcome, boys and girls, to the 64th Hunger Games!" she smiled widely at them, but didn't receive one in return.

She ignored this, though, and continued. "Let's get started then, shall we?"

She walked over to the glass orb that held the girl's names. "As always, ladies first!"

Everyone stiffened as she reached her hand into the bowl, and it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. Whoever was picked would probably never come back to their home ever again.

She picked a name, finally, and unfolded it with agonizing slowness.

"Molly Hooper," she said with another sickly smile, and looked up at the crowd, searching them for this girl.

Sherlock actually knew her. She was in his class at school, and she always seemed nicer to him than other kids, even though she barely talked to him. He would often find her following him around at a distance, and he felt a small bit of sympathy for her. Out of everyone who was here, she deserved being Reaped the least.

Molly climbed up the stairs, and she looked like she was doing all that she could to not cry.

"Now for the boys!" she called, and she crossed over to the boy's bowl, and picked a name. Sherlock crossed his fingers, although he knew that it did no good; he had performed an experiment on it once to see if it worked.

"Prinner Thilt!" Sherlock breathed out a low sigh of relief. He was safe for at least another year.

"Oh no!" Hudson said, and she picked up the piece of paper that had fallen from the bag. She turned to the Peacekeepers, and Mayor Alser joined in the discussion. They were debating on what to do; Sherlock had practiced reading lips, and was now able to interpret a conversation with ease.

He started to sweat, because he saw how the conversation was going; they were going to Reap the boys again.

They soon anounced it, and they re-sealed Prinner Thilt's paper, and dropped them both in again, mixing the papers around.

Sherlock shot a glance at Prinner. He looked so relieved that he was faint.

Hudson picked up the last paper of the evening, slowly opened it, and called out in a loud voice, "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt like he was in a dream. He was soon up on the stage next to Molly and Hudson, although he didn't remember walking up there. He shook hands with Molly, who looked at him with pained eyes.

But as they went into the Government building to say their last good-byes to loved ones, Sherlock slipped back into reality.

He was glad that he had made a plan.

A plan that might not keep him alive forever, but will probably keep him alive for most of the Hunger Games.

He still had his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for such the long update. Summer stuff, y'know. But here's the chapter and that's all you care about so I'll shut up now.**

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Sherlock waited, but no one came. His father he expected not to show up. But his brother? Even his mother? Not one of them came to bid him farewell. He spent the whole time sitting on the velvet couch, waiting and thinking. Thinking of his plan, waiting for people who'd never come, and doing everything in his power not to cry.

People thought he wouldn't care if he got picked. He hated life anyway, why not end it quickly by a knife in the heart or rock to the head?

People thought he wouldn't care if no one came to say good-bye. He hated socialization anyway. Why not give him alone time before he's sent away, destined to never return except for in a casket?

But he did care, for both of those things. Just because he acted like a machine usually didn't mean he couldn't be a human being now.

A peacekeeper soon entered, ushering Sherlock out of the room. He got up, trying to enjoy his last few moments in District 10.

The peacekeeper led him outside, with Molly right beside him. Sherlock noted that her eyes were red.

Mrs. Hudson sat in the car, the only one in all of District 10, used specifically to get the tributes to the train in safety.

Molly and Sherlock climbed in, and immediately liked it. He admired the comfortable leather seats, and enjoyed playing with the seatbelt, although he had no idea what it was for. Molly seemed extremely fascinated with the window, and kept rolling it up and down until Mrs. Hudson stopped her, saying that it was 'not acceptable'.

They finally made it to the trian and boarded it. As the doors closed, Sherlock looked out to see his district one last time.

Molly gasped, causing Sherlock to turn around quickly.

It was nothing like they had ever seen before; fashionable furniture using fabric they did not know of, a mahogany table decked with as much food one could live with for a year, and large windows, having the outside world already being a blur.

Molly immediately headed to the table, looking over all the decadent dishes, and Sherlock could tell she was using all of her strength to restrain from eating them. She turned to Mrs. Hudson. "May I?" she asked, almost pleadingly.

"Go ahead," Mrs. Hudson said, although she seemed a bit put off by Molly's behaviour.

Molly needed no more pushing. She immediately picked up a plate, her eyes looking hungrily about the table , trying to decide what to try first. Sherlock guessed she'd start with the dark, thick, substance with a white swirl, and then move on to the chicken legs, and finish it all off with a bit of everything else.

"Would you like anything, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a forced smile. Sherlock could tell she hated them, and had no hope for them in winning. He didn't exactly blame her. Molly was a nervous, meek, person who would not ever dream of hurting a fly, let alone killing a person her age in cold blood. Sherlock was a quiet, scraggly, pale boy who looked like he was dead already.

"No," Sherlock said bluntly. "I don't eat when I'm thinking. Where are my quarters?"

Mrs. Hudson's smile looked even more forced as she told him the directions to his room. He nodded his head curtly as if to say thank you, and headed to his room.

The room was probably bigger than his whole house, and the bathtub was the size of his old bedroom. He decided to take a quick bath in it, hoping that the suds might calm his nerves.

When he was done, he flopped onto his bed while looking at the time. He had just enough time to review his plan before the Reapings were shown on television, where he'd have a chance to know who his competitors were.

So he got comfortable on the bed, pressed his fingers together as if he were in prayer, and went into the depths of what he called his 'Mind Palace'.

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**Hope you all liked it! Please review and tell me what you think :)**


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